Ice Storm - Anne Stuart [6]
So she managed a tight smile. “Okay,” she said. “You can drive me to the hostel on Market Street and chase away any wandering bad guys. Or you can walk me there—it’s not far.”
“If that’s what you prefer. And you can tell me something about yourself, and why you aren’t having hysterics over the fact that you just narrowly missed being raped and murdered.”
“I’m practical, and having hysterics won’t help me. I’ll wait till I’m alone.”
“There’s not much privacy in a youth hostel.”
She looked up at him. “You’re far too nosy about me and my reactions.”
“Hey, it’s not every day I save a damsel in distress. I have a vested interest.” His voice was light, careless, and the streetlights bounced off the thin glasses as they left the alley.
She shoved her tangle of red hair away from her face. “I’m not a damsel in distress. I’m a student on my way to the Cordon Bleu in Paris, and I can take care of myself.”
“So I observed. Classes don’t start for another three weeks. What are you doing wandering around England?”
The uneasiness that had almost ebbed away began to trickle back. “How do you know when the Cordon Bleu starts classes?”
“I’ve lived in France off and on for a number of years. I’m just about to head back there—I’m taking classes at a small art college in Paris and I planned to bum around the countryside for a bit. What’s your excuse?”
The panic was fading, and she pushed her paranoia down. “I was going to do the same thing. I was told it was safe to hitchhike in Europe.”
“Not when you look like you do.”
It was a simple statement, not even a compliment, and there was no way she could respond. To her astonishment they were already at the door of her hostel, where a pool of yellow light surrounded the front door.
She held out her hand. “Thank you for helping me.”
He looked at her hand for a moment, a smile quirking his mouth. She could see him better in the light—his hair was long, tied in the back with a leather loop, his face narrow and intelligent looking, his mouth the only anomaly. It was a rich, beautiful mouth in an otherwise austere face, particularly when he was smiling.
He took her hand and bowed low over it in an exaggerated gesture. “I live to serve. My name’s Killian, by the way.”
“Is that your first or last name?”
“Take your pick. I’m Thomas Henry Killian St. Claire, but I don’t care much for the other ones. And you are…?”
“Mary.”
He waited patiently, still holding her hand. “Mary Isobel Curwen,” she said finally, snatching it away.
“Well, Mary Isobel Curwen, it’s been an honor to have been of service. If you decide you want a ride to France just let me know.”
“I don’t think so. I’m fine on my own.”
“Of course you are. I’ll be at the ferry tomorrow morning—I’ve got a battered orange Citroën. If you want a ride, just show up. No strings attached. I’ve got a French girlfriend who’d cut my throat if I even looked at another woman. I’m just offering a ride to a fellow American.”
“I’m fine,” she said again.
“Suit yourself. I’m taking the ten o’clock ferry. In the meantime, stay out of dark alleyways, okay? France has even more of them.”
“I will.”
She half expected him to argue, but he simply walked away from her, down the deserted street, hands in his pockets, a man at ease with the world.
She watched him go. The whole evening had taken on a surreal feeling, and the sooner she got in the shower and into bed, the sooner she’d get past it. By ten tomorrow he’d be on his way to France and she would have forgotten entirely about him.
By ten o’clock she was sitting beside him in the disreputable orange Citroën, driving onto the ferry and wondering if she’d lost her mind.
She’d been a weakness, one Killian couldn’t afford to have. He’d only been passing through Plymouth, trying to find a good cover to get into France to complete his mission, and the noise in the alleyway was none of his business. He’d accepted long